


Back to the Wall

by xsnarksthespot



Series: 4 Times They Faked a Fight and the One Time It Was Real [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 16:41:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1354366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xsnarksthespot/pseuds/xsnarksthespot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis is severely injured when rebels take the Musketeers (& a pre-commission d'Artagnan) hostage. Athos instigates a plan to free them without giving the boys a heads up. Hint: it involves his fists and d'Artagnan's face.</p><p>
  <i>“If this man dies here and you do nothing to stop it, you will know pain the likes of which you cannot even imagine,” Athos hisses through his teeth. His steely, diplomatic ways have apparently fled - bled out onto the floor behind him, most likely. Unfortunately, the guard is too stupid to be afraid. He pushes the tip of the gun into Athos’ chest, and shoves him forcefully back from the bars.</i>
</p><p>[The second in a series that will each have a different Musketeer's POV, until the last piece when they'll all get a say. This one is Athos. Which means it's heavy on the manpain and internalized observations.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back to the Wall

Athos is only human. He can’t control the weather. He can’t stop a horse from getting spooked by lightning and twisting a leg. He can’t predict overtaxed and angry countrymen ambushing four men riding three horses in the relentless rain.

He can’t stop the main gauche that catches Aramis where the base of his neck meets shoulders, either. Or the anxious shout that precedes Porthos cutting down two men in a brutal, bloody rush to reach Aramis before he collapses.

He can only watch out of the side of one eye as he and d’Artagnan fight off six attackers of their own. The horses are alternately rearing in panic or racing around in circles and the rain is a punishing drum beat on their backs. The boy is good, if still a bit green, and they’re fighting like they’re possessed. But the ground gives way beneath their boots.

It’s only a matter of time.

Five men on horseback crest the ridge ahead, guns in hand. The fight rages on for a moment, but Athos takes a pistol butt to the back of the head. As consciousness slips away, he counts the three men it takes to drag Porthos away from the terrifyingly limp body of their friend. 

It’s a punishing image that chases him into the pitch black.

\-----

“Would you both please stop hovering like vultures? I’m fine.” 

Aramis is nowhere in the vicinity of fine. His voice is a ravaged whisper and he’s propped up on the floor next to Porthos, looking like a broken marionette clinging to this world by the barest of strings. Or maybe it’s the hand clamped tightly against the back of his neck that’s holding him here.

Athos wouldn’t doubt it. If anyone can keep Death away with a fierce glare and a growl, it’s Porthos. 

Unfortunately, he looks anything but fierce right now. Exhaustion and worry are etched into his face, where Athos is accustomed to seeing laughter and bravado more often than not. He took the flat side of a broadsword to the side of his head at some point and the bruise is spreading from his ear to the edge of his eye. Banging on the bars of the cell and demanding their release, _or at least a bloody sewing kit_ , must have depleted what energy he had left after the fight, because he hasn’t spoken hardly a word since. 

And now, now he just looks aged and wet and, _God help them_ , unspeakably scared. 

Resting his head against the stone wall behind him, Porthos closes his eyes. His bloodstained grip is still pressed hard against the sash-turned-bandage covering Aramis’ wound.

“You’re half-dead already,” d’Artagnan supplies unhelpfully, in that tone of his that is forever etched with attitude. Porthos visibly stiffens and growls wordlessly. His grip on Aramis tightens, but his eyes stay clamped shut. Perhaps he’s afraid if he opens them, he’ll start a fight he doesn’t have the will to finish.

“d’Artagnan…” Athos levels an icy stare of caution at the boy. 

“ _He is_ ,” d’Artagnan shoots back, but it’s small and defeated and his eyes don’t land anywhere for long. He’s only been with them a short while, but already, they are four instead of three.

“Good riddance,” one of two guards barks through the bars of the cramped cell. “One less Musketeer to kiss the King’s arse whilst he bleeds us all dry.”

In one of his rare bursts of abrupt, unbridled fury, Athos lunges at the bars. He’s bedraggled and his hair still weeps rain, but the sneer on his face is nothing short of bloodthirsty. The guard leaps back just in time to avoid having a vice-like grip tighten around his neck before he can swing his Arqubus up and around. 

“If this man dies here and you do nothing to stop it, you will know pain the likes of which you _cannot even imagine_ ,” Athos hisses through his teeth. His steely, diplomatic ways have apparently fled - bled out onto the floor behind him, most likely. Unfortunately, the guard is too stupid to be afraid. He pushes the tip of the gun into Athos’ chest, and shoves him forcefully back from the bars.

“Don’t waste your breath. You haven’t got much left before we make’n example outta you. All’a you,” the guard snickers, glancing to his partner. The other guard is less of an idiot, but he still forces a grim smile in support.

“We have done _nothing_ to--” d’Artagnan cuts off as Athos turns and places a palm against his chest, stopping his forward momentum. The two exchange a subtle conversation of the eyes - muted rage versus youthful frustration. 

_Don’t follow my example. Not on this._

_But--_

_Don’t._

With a clench of his jaw, d’Artagnan turns his back and paces a few steps away. Athos spies Porthos out of the corner of his eye, leaning over to murmur something against the shell of Aramis’ ear. The pain in the wounded man’s face ebbs away for a moment, a precious heartbeat, replaced by the faint echo of a laugh. 

Only Porthos can make Aramis laugh with blood on his hands and despair in his eyes.

“We have to _do something_ ,” d’Artagnan whispers fiercely, having returned to Athos’ right hand, and it’s then that Athos makes a choice. Their backs are to the guards, but he still can’t risk an explanation. Without warning, he turns and latches onto d’Artagnan at the collar, driving him into the nearest stone wall.

“What you speak of is _treason_. Keep your mouth shut or I’ll be forced to shut it _permanently_ ,” Athos snaps, inexplicably, which naturally earns him a surprised raise of eyebrows from the man he’s just assaulted and two startled gazes from the men on the floor. Well, one startled gaze and one weary, confused one, anyway.

Luckily, d’Artagnan is just as quick on the uptake as Athos counted on him being. It only takes a second for a look of recognition to catch in the boy’s eyes before he’s propelling Athos off of him with a hard shove.

“And what else would you suggest, hm? That we wait here to die? That we _watch Aramis slip away first_? We have the kind of information that could buy us our _lives_. No king is worth taking it to the grave!” 

Porthos catches on only a few seconds later than he normally would and he chimes in with an angry grunt. “Don’t go there. We’re Musketeers, not bloody traitors.”

“ _You’re_ Musketeers,” d’Artagnan counters bitterly, probably without needing to fake the emotion much. Athos makes a promise to himself to put more effort into securing the boy’s commission. If they survive this, that is. “I have no such allegiance. And I _refuse_ to die here.”

He makes a move towards the guards, who are paying close attention now, and Athos mentally apologises to his young friend before balling a fist and connecting it with d’Artagnan’s jaw. The boy stumbles backwards, outrage blooming on his face quicker than the bruise that will follow along later. Rubbing at his jaw, he narrows convincingly mutinous eyes at Athos.

Faked or not, the fight that follows is short and brutal. Athos is surprised to find he gets his bell rung at least twice - once by a fist and once by stone. The two men aren’t quite as in step as the other three so often are, but that sort of harmony takes time, and this fight needs to be believable besides. The fact that they’re both bleeding by the time Athos has d’Artagnan pinned to the ground, with his hands seemingly cutting off the boy’s air, only helps to seal the farce.

The guards do as they are expected to, storming in to stop the fight and recover the man they think will give them something valuable to take back to their leader. Athos rams an elbow into the face of the chatty one, perhaps a bit _too_ gleefully. d’Artagnan rolls free, snagging the other’s pistol and driving the butt of it into the man’s gut. The rest is a quick scuffle that ends with two guards at gunpoint and a quiet sound of relief from Porthos. He’s already climbing to his feet, gentle hands pulling Aramis up along with him. Aramis whimpers in spite of himself.

“S’alright, Aramis. I got you. We’re gettin’ out of here. Everything’s gonna be alright,” Porthos murmurs, easing Aramis’ arm over his shoulder with excessive care, but his eyes are on Athos now and the heartache in his stare hasn’t budged an inch. Athos holds that stare as long as he dares, hoping his gaze is a reassuring as he wants it to be. When he shifts his attention back to the guards, d’Artagnan binds them with their own belts without needed to be told. The quiet one makes a move, but gets only a broken nose for his trouble.

“You’ll never get outta ‘ere alive,” he mutters petulantly, his nose gushing as he tilts his head back.

“I hope that thought gives you comfort until we return with enough Musketeers to cart you and your conspirators off to the gallows,” Athos sighs. He has regained some his cool, which is fortunate, because he’ll need it to get through this.

d’Artagnan isn’t quite so mature, however. He kicks off his boots and gags both guards with his damp woolen hose, committing the act with a bit more relish than is entirely necessary. Once his boots are pulled back on over bare feet, he flashes a self-satisfied smirk at Athos. 

Athos feels a pang of bizarre pride swell in his chest. It’s not the first time and he suspects it won’t be the last.

Thankfully, their weapons and saddlebags are just outside the cell, shoved into a nook in the wall where they’ve apparently been searched and then abandoned. Armed and driven forward on adrenaline, the four men escape the building with only two brief skirmishes that end with dead men at their feet. It’s still raining outside, but not as violently as before. It isn’t until Aramis is laid out in a stolen cart that a real battle occurs. All the while, Porthos is stripping off his unconscious friend’s blood-soaked shirt and cleaning the wound as gingerly as he can using supplies from Aramis' own pack, the distraction of steel against steel ringing in the air.

Five men fall - either badly wounded or dead, Athos cares not - before the quiet settles in and he can finally climb up into the driver’s perch. He glances over his shoulder, frowning at the angry wound Porthos is stitching shut with more reverence than skill. 

“He’s going to be cross about that scar…” he muses, hitching an eyebrow upwards. It’s an attempt at levity, but his somber tone likely spoils the effort. d’Artagnan climbs up into the passenger side and goes about reloading each of their guns with one eye on their surroundings.

“Cross but breathin’. I can live with that.” The grumble is punctuated by Porthos adjusting his steadying grip on Aramis’ neck, the tip of his thumb mindlessly brushing against damp hair. When the stitching is as done as it's going to get, he lifts a poignant gaze to Athos and musters up a grim set of his mouth. “Get us the hell out of ‘ere, Athos.”

\-----

Hours later, the rain has finally ceased and Treville is down in the yard gathering up enraged Musketeers by the dozens, d’Artagnan amongst them. 

Aramis has been painstakingly bathed and is wearing oversized smallclothes from the spare wardrobe Porthos keeps at the garrison. Athos nurses a bottle of wine while Porthos stands guard until Aramis is dropping off into fitful sleep. Only then does Porthos collapse next to the bed with his head in his trembling hands. Adrenaline abandoned them all some time ago, so even Athos feels his shoulders rattle with escaping tension. 

Lowering himself carefully to the floor, Athos sets the bottle down at his hip and crosses his arms over his bent knees. There’s the urge to console with touch, obviously. And not just for Porthos’ sake. But he can’t bring himself to lay a comforting hand on his friend when his heart still feels raw. 

Instead, they sit there in silence for a while, shoulder pressed to shoulder with a steady, meaningful weight. 

As it has been for years. As it will always be.

“Have you given any thought to what I--” Athos breaks the silence, but his words are clipped by a violent shake of Porthos’ head as the man straightens beside him. It isn’t enough to stop him from quietly pressing on, though. “Why not?”

“I can’t risk it,” Porthos whispers brokenly. He won’t meet Athos’ all-too-knowing stare, only drags his haunted gaze off to some distant point on the floorboards.

“It’s not a risk when you could never say anything to drive him away from you. But I suspect you know that.” Athos quiets for a moment, contemplating if he should push the issue further. He takes pity on Porthos, instead. It’s been a long day, after all. And hoping that perhaps, maybe, something good could come of what they’ve just survived does not give him the right to hound his friend. Athos cups a hand to the back of Porthos neck and then climbs to his feet, wine bottle collected as he moves.

“Take a bath and get some sleep, Porthos.” When Porthos looks as if he is going to balk, Athos levels a stern glare at him. “ _I insist_. He’ll sleep for hours yet.” Doning his hat, he adds an afterthought that he knows will stop any resistance. “...You’ll need to change his bandages and make sure he eats when he wakes. If you are too desperately in need of sleep yourself, then someone else will have to take over for you.”

Porthos clenches his jaw and huffs a breath out through his nose. His sharp nod of acceptance is met with a perceptive smirk and a much more agreeable nod in return. As Athos opens the door to leave, Aramis shifts in the bed and his hand drapes over the edge. 

Watching Porthos tenderly brush his cheek against Aramis’ palm leaves Athos feeling like he’s witnessed something private and precious. Something he doesn’t deserve to see. It hits him in the chest like a musket ball and propels him out the door. 

He’ll be fortunate if sleep comes tonight. But then, that’s what the wine is for.


End file.
